“Go east on Sixth. There’s a flower shop a few doors down. Buy a dozen red roses. You know what roses look like, right?”
“I have a vague idea,” she said.
“I wasn’t sure, after the onion thing. If you walk out of that store with gardenias, this whole plan goes to hell.”
“What a shame that would be,” said the voice. “All right, I’m walking into the store.”
There was some noise on the line, and then I heard her asking someone for a dozen red roses. More noise and muffled talking.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’m buying roses, Mr. Fowler. As per your request. Please be patient.” The line was silent for a moment. “All right, exiting the store.”
“Good. Walk east back toward San Pedro. Let me know when you’re there.”
After a few seconds of silence, she came back on the line. “I’m here. Where are you?”
“Keep walking until you get to San Julian.”
“I tire of these games, Mr. Fowler. You’d better be at the corner when I get there.”
“You’ll see me soon enough,” I replied. My comm chirped, indicating there was another call waiting. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “When you get to San Julian, stop and wait for further instruction.” I switched to the other call. “April, what have you got?”
“I see your mystery woman. I borrowed a pair of binoculars from the pervert in the next office. Mystery woman has a nice figure. Wearing a gray skirt with a royal blue blouse. Can’t get a good look at her face; she’s wearing a hat.”
“And she has the roses?”
“A bouquet of red flowers, yes. Could be tulips for all I know, but she’s got flowers.”
“Is she alone?”
“As far as I can tell. There’s nobody else on that side of the street except a couple of panhandlers.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let me know when she gets to the corner.”
“She’s almost there now. Who is this woman?”
“I honestly have no idea,” I said.
“Well, she’s at the corner.”
“Do you see a cab nearby?”
“Hmm. Yes, just around the corner, on San Julian.”
“Okay, hold on.” I switched back to the mystery woman. “Ms. Hearst?”
“Still here, Mr. Fowler.”
“There should be a cab parked around the corner.”
There was a pause. “I see it.”
“Get in the cab. Alone.”
“You mean without the roses?”
“You can keep the roses.”
“You really know how to make a girl swoon, Mr. Fowler.”
I switched back to April. “She should be getting in the cab,” I said.
“She is,” April replied.
“Is she still alone?”
“Yes. She just closed the door.”
I muted April. “Now what?”
“Get on First Street heading east,” said Keane. “And toss the call to me.”
“Gladly,” I said, and sent the call to Keane’s comm. I started the car and pulled onto the street.
“Ms. Hearst?” Keane said. “This is Erasmus Keane. Tell the cabdriver to head west on Sixth.” There was a pause. “Good. Now I need you to listen very closely. Your cabdriver should have a license number displayed on the dashboard. Do you see it? Okay, I want you to look at the last digit on the license number. Do not read it aloud. Just look at it. Do you have it? Good. Again, without saying it aloud, add three to that number. Got it? Okay, now multiply that number by five. Yes, it’s for a very good reason, Ms. Hearst. Trust me. Do you have it? Okay, good. Finally, subtract four from that number. Do not say the number aloud; just remember it. Where are you now? Excellent. Tell the driver to turn right on Hill Street. Call me back at this number when you’re coming up to First Street.” He ended the call.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“Just giving her something to do,” said Keane. “Cab rides are boring.”
I had turned onto First Street, and was now heading east toward Grand Park. I switched my comm back to April. “Hey, sorry about that,” I said. “I think we’re done with you for now.”
“Such a gentleman,” said April. “You’re not going to tell me why we’re stalking this poor woman?”
“Later,” I said. “Thanks a lot, April.”
“Fine,” she said, and ended the call.
After a moment, Keane said, “Odd that they would make the coins out of titanium, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” I replied. “Don’t they make jewelry out of titanium?”
“Yes,” said Keane. “It’s hypoallergenic and corrosive-resistant, as are several other metals, including silver and gold. Unlike those metals, however, titanium is nearly indestructible. Highest strength-to-weight ratio of any metal. Melting point just over three thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Extremely difficult to work with. Kim said it’s very rare for coins to be made from any sort of titanium alloy.”
“So why did they do it?”
“As yet unclear,” said Keane. “What did you make of the mayfly?”
“Is that what that was?” I asked. “I thought it was a dragonfly.”
Keane shook his head. “Leptophlebia nebulosa, in the order ephemeroptera.”
“Like Ephemeral,” I said.
“From the Greek ephemeros, meaning ‘lasting only one day.’ The mayfly is a common symbol for ephemerality or something short-lived. Strange thing to put on an indestructible coin, don’t you think?”
“The whole thing is strange,” I said. “A physical coin that symbolizes a virtual currency while claiming not to symbolize it?”
“Yes,” said Keane. “Somebody put some thought into this. It’s more than a simple marketing gimmick, that much is certain.” He stared intently into space for some time. I shrugged.
A few minutes later, Keane’s comm chirped.
“Erasmus Keane,” he said. Then, after a brief pause, he continued, “Okay, tell the driver to go straight at the light. Let me know when it turns green. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Los Angeles the day after a good hard rain is the best. Washes away all the dust and—Okay, good. Have him drop you off at the Grand Park Metro station. Should be just ahead on your right. Tell me when you’re there. Excellent. Get out of the car. You still have that number in your head? Excellent. Here’s what you’re going to do. Go down into the Metro station. Let me know when you’re inside. This is fun, isn’t it? Like being in a spy novel. No? Well, I suppose it’s a matter of perspective. Okay, good. Now look at the display showing the train arrival times. Do you see it? Good. You’re going to number the trains, starting at the top. So the first train is number one, the second is number two, the third is number three, and so forth. Pick the train number corresponding to the number I had you remember earlier. Yes, I’m getting to that. Look at only the last digit of the train number for the train corresponding to your number. Do you have it? Good. Multiply that number by three. Don’t tell me. Do you have it? Okay, now add ten to that number. Good. Yes, we’re almost done. Stick with me. Triple that number. Do you have it? Good. Finally add the last digit from the train number to your total. Do you have it? Excellent. Do not say the number or anything else, except to indicate that you understand these instructions. If the number you ended up with is even, you’re going to exit the station to the north. If the number is odd, you’re going to exit to the south. Please exit now, disposing of the roses in a trash can on the way out. While you are walking, I would like you to sing ‘Que Sera, Sera.’ It’s okay if you don’t know all the words, just do the best you can. Yes, it’s important. Yes, I’m being serious. Very nice. You have a wonderful voice, Ms. Hearst. Let me know when you’re outside. Very good, thank you. Okay, now, if the last digit of your number is greater than five, I want you to turn left. Otherwise, turn right. Understand? Excellent. Keep walking and singing until I give you further instructions.” He muted the call.
“What the hell was all
that?” I asked. “You’ve got the Metro train schedule memorized?”
“Just be at the corner of Temple and Broadway, heading south, in four minutes,” Keane said.
“Temple and Broadway?” I said. “You realize you’re having me drive literally right past the courthouse? City Hall is one block away.”
“We’re hiding in plain sight,” said Keane. “Have some gum.” He had pulled a pack of chewing gum from his pocket and was proffering me a piece.
“No thanks,” I said. I turned left on Grand, which would take us to Temple.
“I’m not asking,” said Keane. “Take the gum.”
I took the gum, unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth. It was best to choose your battles with Keane. “Seriously,” I said around the gum. “How on Earth are we going to have any idea where our mystery woman is going to end up?”
Keane sighed. “You really don’t get it?” he asked. “I had such high hopes for you, Fowler.” Keane had pulled a notepad from his pocket and was scribbling on it with a pen.
I frowned, trying to make sense of Keane’s instructions. Even if he had the train schedule memorized, there was no way he could know the cabbie’s license number. The only explanation was that it was a trick, a sort of mental sleight of hand. “You rigged the question so the answer is the same, regardless of the inputs,” I said.
“Ha!” Keane exclaimed. “There may be hope for you yet! The value of the cabbie’s license number was immaterial. The algorithm I had her apply to it would produce a number with a one in the ones column regardless of the number she started with. The result was that she was looking at the first train on the display.”
“And you knew the number of the first train?”
“Hey? No, I don’t even know how many trains would be listed. That’s why I went with the first one. It didn’t matter what number she picked, because the second algorithm would predictably yield a multiple of ten. An even number, meaning she would go north, and a zero in the ones column, meaning she would turn right. I just needed the appearance of randomness, so that anybody listening in would be suitably confused. Someone with a basic understanding of algebra could figure it out in a few minutes, but by then she’ll be long gone. Good, she’s still singing. She really does have a lovely voice. The future’s not ours to see, que sera, sera. Slow down, we’re early.”
We had turned onto Temple and were coming up on Broadway.
I took my foot off the accelerator, coasting as slowly as I could without attracting undue attention. We hit the light green and kept going. The park was coming up on our right.
“Pull over here,” Keane said. “I’ll take the wheel. Mystery woman should be coming down that path. Rendezvous with her and bring her back here. I’ll go around the block and be back here in five minutes exactly.”
“Roger that,” I said, stopping the car.
“Tossing the call back to you,” he said, flicking his finger on his comm display. Suddenly I heard Selah Fiore—or an exceptionally good facsimile thereof—singing “Que Sera, Sera” in my ear. “And take this,” he said. He tore off the sheet from his notepad and handed it to me. I glanced at it and nodded.
“You know what to do?” he asked.
“I think I can manage.” I hopped out and Keane slid over into the driver’s seat. “See you in five.”
EIGHT
Keane drove off, and I headed down the sidewalk. Ahead of me were a series of wide steps leading up to a raised plaza. I hurried up them so I’d be able to see mystery woman coming. For all Keane’s brilliance, he couldn’t have picked a much worse place to rendezvous with her, from a tactical perspective. There were cops all over the place and very little cover. Much of Grand Park is really more of a wide-open plaza crisscrossed by wide concrete paths than an actual park. It was bordered by several government buildings, so cops, lawyers, and various other species of parasite could often be seen cutting through the park on the way to the scene of their next crime. Ordinarily the cops would be a stabilizing influence, but being wanted for murder made their presence an unwanted complication. I made it to the plaza only to find there was another set of steps a hundred feet or so ahead. Mystery woman would be coming down those steps in less than a minute, and she’d have a much better vantage point on me than I’d have on her.
I turned off the path, my sudden interest in a commemorative plaque coinciding with the advance of two uniformed LAPD monkeys coming down the steps. I crouched down so as to take in every detail regarding Ira and Evelyn Klein, who had made this plaza possible through a generous grant. While reflecting on the beneficence of the Kleins, I pulled a pen from my jacket pocket and lay Keane’s note on the top of the plaque. Keane had written:
Stomp on your comm and place it and your earphone in this trash can.
Below this I scribbled:
Then head south.
When the cops had passed, I glanced up to see a shapely woman in a gray skirt and blue blouse coming down the steps. She wore a wide-brimmed beach hat, and I caught only a glimpse of her face as she came down. She looked like Selah Fiore, but it was hard to tell from this distance. I turned away from her, walked to the nearest trash can, and spat my gum out into my hand. Then I stuck Keane’s note to the side of the can and walked back down the steps I’d just come up. I was now hidden from mystery woman’s line of sight. I turned right down the sidewalk, picked up my pace, and unmuted my comm.
“Ms. Hearst?” I said.
The singing in my ear stopped. “Mr. Fowler,” said mystery woman. “I’m about to call a cab and head home. I’ve had enough of your—”
“You’re not going to call a cab,” I said. “If you didn’t want very badly to talk to me and Keane, you wouldn’t have put up with his nonsense so far. Here’s what you’re going to do. About thirty feet ahead of you, on your right, is a trash can.” I was guessing at this point, assuming that mystery woman had continued walking at an average pace since coming down the steps. “Do you see it?”
“Yes.”
“Walk to that trash can. There’s a note stuck to the side. Follow the instructions on the note.”
I muted my comm and turned right, climbing another set of steps that ran parallel to the ones I had just come down. I was back in mystery woman’s line of sight, but hopefully she was preoccupied trying to decipher Keane’s handwriting.
“Is this really necessary?” the voice asked.
I unmuted my comm again. “Afraid so,” I said, crossing the path without glancing in mystery woman’s direction. I heard the woman sigh, and then the line went dead. I continued walking for another fifty feet and then turned and crouched down, finding another fascinating plaque. Glancing up, I saw mystery woman heading south down the path, perpendicular to the path I had just taken. I ducked back down, remaining hidden until I was certain she had passed. I glanced up to confirm her location, then quickly scanned the area for any signs of surveillance. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I stood up and cut across the lawn toward the sidewalk behind her.
“Don’t look back,” I said in a clear but casual tone, as I stepped onto the sidewalk. “Just keep walking.”
She gave no sign of having heard me.
When I was about ten feet behind her, I slowed to match her pace. “See that bench on the right? You’re going to sit there, right in the middle.”
She again did not react, but after a few more paces veered to the right toward the bench. As she sat, she turned to look at me, but I wasn’t where she expected. I’d ducked around behind the bench, timing my approach perfectly with the turn of her head as she sat down. Bugs Bunny would have been proud.
Before she could rotate her torso to look behind the bench, I put my left hand on her shoulder, pinning her in place. I took another look around to make sure no one was making a beeline toward me or otherwise showing untoward interest. “I apologize, Ms. Hearst,” I said. “I need to check you for weapons and tracking devices.”
“Do what you must,” she said, irritated but resigned. I s
till couldn’t see her face, thanks to her hat.
“Spread your arms across the back of the bench,” I said.
She did.
Her arms were bare—and flawless. There was literally not a mark on them. No inoculation scars, no freckles, no wrinkles, no liver spots. Medical science had progressed a lot over the past few decades, but there was no way this woman was near sixty. Those arms looked like they’d just rolled off the perfect-arm assembly line that morning.
After a moment of distraction, I ran my left hand down her left side to her hips, down to her knees, and then did the right side. What I could see of her legs looked just as good as the arms. Her body was soft, supple and—from what I could tell—completely natural. No girdle to smooth the lines or artificial padding to round out curves. I’m a professional, but I will admit to forgetting a couple of times exactly what I was looking for.
“About done?” she asked.
I grunted something vaguely affirmative and checked my comm. Keane would be at the corner in one minute. Really I should have checked under mystery woman’s skirt as well, but that would undoubtedly have drawn some looks—not to mention protests from mystery woman. I got the sense that whatever her interests were in wanting to talk to us, she wasn’t going to put up with much more. In any case, there was no time.
“Get up,” I said. “Walk back the way you came, then turn right at the trash can where you dumped your comm. Go down the steps. A car will be waiting for you at the corner.”
I stepped around the bench and walked away, returning the way I’d just come. I glanced back to see if I could get a look at mystery woman’s face, but she was already walking in the other direction. My plan was to head down the flight of steps to the south, then turn left on the street and jog east to the corner where Keane had dropped me off. Mystery woman would go east first and take the flight of steps farther north. Basically, we were each tracing two sides of an elongated rectangle, meeting at the far corner. Hopefully Keane would be there as well, or mystery woman and I were going to have an awkward reunion probably culminating in an arrest.
When I got to the bottom of the steps, I turned left and jogged east, glancing at my comm display with a worried look on my face, as if I were late for an appointment at the courthouse. My worry became a whole lot more convincing as I approached the corner to see three men in LAPD uniforms chatting in exactly the spot where Keane had dropped me off. I saw April’s car approaching a hundred feet or so down the street.
The Last Iota Page 8